


Whispers and Flickers of Light

by RedMela



Category: Metro 2033 - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, mute!Artyom, patryom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4209768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedMela/pseuds/RedMela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moment he had seen the messy Cyrillic written on his arm, his seemingly hardened heart had leapt up into his throat and choked his dead dream awake. He didn't know what had gotten into him, but he had grabbed the younger soldier by the wrist; aggressively pulled off both of their gloves to reveal dirty, calloused hands. He had caught the Spartan’s fingers into a brutally desperate hold and everything simply began to make sense. </p><p>inspired/continuation of ThatDamnKennedyKid's "No Words" and it would be best to read that one before this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers and Flickers of Light

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [No Words](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4156404) by [ThatDamnKennedyKid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatDamnKennedyKid/pseuds/ThatDamnKennedyKid). 



_I see something that you don’t see... When you lie to me_

_._

_._

_._

_“There are a few components that are unique to bonded souls,”_ his father had explained to him as a child. He, himself being without a mark, had always been driven by curiosity and childish obsession surrounding soul mate theory. It was often a topic over many dinners. Igor, a stern yet patient man, had always said the same thing. “ _The first is the mark – containing the first words ever spoken to one another and the way the two halves of the soul identify each other. The second is the first touch in which the two halves are seemed together again. Most soul mates can feel each other’s emotions, feel their pain, and some can even read each other’s thoughts.”_

 _“Papa, what happens when a soul mate dies?”_ he had needed to know – what happened to his soul mate... were they dead?

 _“Those who never_ _have the chance to meet their soul mates feel empty... and those who bonded... Pasha you are too young to know these things – finish your dinner and off to bed with you!”_

Pavel hadn’t always been this way and he liked to think of himself as rather optimistic, but in their world, it was easier to become cold. Having grown up under the star of communism it was natural that he'd flourished through the ranks of the Red Line to become an effective and dangerous soldier. He could lie, cheat, and _fuck_ his way out of most situations if he really wanted to; and that was without praising his skills as an officer or without a single drop of vodka.

That was all before Artyom

The moment he had seen the messy Cyrillic written on his arm, his seemingly hardened heart had leapt up into his throat and choked his dead dream awake. He didn't know what had gotten into him, but he had grabbed the younger soldier by the wrist; aggressively pulled off both of their gloves to reveal dirty, calloused hands. He had caught the Spartan’s fingers into a brutally desperate hold and everything simply began to make sense.

_I’m Artyom. I’m mute._

He had heard his father explain it to him thousands of times and had enviously listened when the odd soldier would drunkenly explain the resonance behind this rare occurrence. Hell, he’s read it on over thousands of scrapped books on soul theory that he had been able to find... but he never quite imagined it’d feel like _this_.

His entire body had hummed in delight in an orgasmic wave of euphoria. He felt the words Artyom had written burn into the folds of his skin where he’d hold them precious and dear for as long as he dared to _live_. It was as if there was a heart beating right alongside his and every new drum sent an electric shock of emotion that made his blood boil and his eyes sparkle. Adoration seeped into his pours and he vowed to learn everything he could about their reunited soul.

“D’Artagnan, my brother, I _knew_ I had a good feeling about you.”

.

.

He knew he had to do this.

It wasn't _betrayal_. No, no, нет... it was... it was hope. Hope for Artyom to see the justice in their cause, to see that the Red Line isn't as bad as everyone says it is, to see that there really was hope for them to live together. (1) 

Artyom never mentioned it when writing down his thoughts to him on paper, but he could _feel it_ nonetheless. He feared that their alliance to opposite ends of the border would rip them apart. Pavel could _see it_ whenever they had the same dream - fire, fire, fire... and the little dark one.

He wouldn't let that happen.

Okay, so maybe he was... _bending_ the truth to an extent... but it was for a greater good. Originally he had planned to let the little Ranger run to Polis, but things were different now...

They were _bonded_ and he doesn’t know if he’d be able to handle this kind of separation from someone whose soul had become some intertwined with his own. His papa, the books he’s read, the _questions_ he’s asked and sought for never said anything good about soul mates being separated from each other. Not that it was _physically_ dangerous as people from older times used to do constantly... but _psychologically?_

Life in the metro was dangerous and unpredictable. They didn’t have the luxury or comfort of being safe for long periods of time.

The Theatr was the best option. If he could convince comrade Korbut that his capture had led to a success and not a failure – that he had been able to recruit yet another Spartan Ranger into working for the Red Line it would definitely guarantee both their safety.

But that was only if everything went well... and if Artyom agreed.

"Tyoma!" he called, ignoring the soldiers ahead of them. The Ranger was covered in Watchmen blood; for once the protective helmet removed and his wool mask pulled down to reveal sharp, clean features of a young man. (2)

Artyom only raised his eyebrow at the nickname, a questioning gaze gracing his features as Pavel could only laugh in response.

"I get to finally see your ugly mug," he murmured, stroking his clean shaven cheek as he felt the bubbling anxiety of his other half melt away into playful annoyance.

" _Блядь_ , but seriously, Чувак - everything's going to be fine now. I promise." (3)(4)

He saw admiration flood into those expressive eyes in tidal waves and he never thought he’d be so willing to simply allow himself to drown in the sensation.

And sure, he was a man that liked to indulge in the little fruits that life liked to leave for him to find, so when Artyom began to mouth “Pasha” to him instead of “Pavel” or “Athos” Блин, _shoot him_ – he couldn’t resist. Their lips finally brushed against each other’s for the first time and it felt better than any sex he’s ever had; like every single one of his nerves had gone off with bombarded force inside of his organs. (5)

He didn’t think he’d ever know or understand what affection was; how partnership and monogamy felt...but _this_ – this intense connection to another human being.

He thinks... that this is what love is.

.

.

They were all wrong.

Being separated from your soul mate wasn’t physically painful or mentally taxing.

It was _excruciating._

He didn’t know if it was his own guilt weighing down on him or the fact that their connection was simply, for lack of better terms, _fucked._

Sure, soul mates could feel each other’s emotions at close proximity and some could even read each other’s thoughts, but over a long distance? Impossible.

Maybe Artyom’s anger and hatred for him was so strong and well fueled that it was _strengthening_ their connection. He had known every single emotion... every small detail... and he doesn’t think it’s all just coming from his gut instinct, Блин.

He had _known_ Artyom had escaped before he had received the message. He had _felt_ Artyom in Venice, _sensed_ when he had been within a grasp away from touching him, coming after him, and shooting him.

Artyom had his chance to be with him, to join the Red Line and the better option. Artyom _had his chance._

At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

When he would get drunk with his fellow comrades he’d scream and curse and _damn this connection_ for making him so emotional and vulnerable. Other times, it was his blessing.

With every bullet wound, every punch, every single harassment Artyom went through – he felt. Not at the same intensity that Tyoma was going through, but much to his despair he _knew_ what was happening.

At least... at least he knew that he was alive and kicking – that tough _су́кин сын._ (6)

As agonizing as their separation was he never _ever_ wanted to know how it’d feel to lose it permanently.

.

.

_“So, Spartan, you decided to show up? You got balls, huh, that's for sure!”_

He was good communist – no _really,_ he was and he didn’t believe in gods or spirits or religions being the answer to all the fucked up problems of the world. But... he had _prayed_ that this moment would never come.

_“I will be damned! It's Artyom! Well... Your luck had to run out someday. You can disregard the order about the weapon, okay?”_

 

He wanted to be angry. He wanted to be pissed and seething. But how can you muster enough fury against the other half of your soul?

 

_“But you just had to escape, huh... and then come right here! You should use your fucking head sometimes, Artyom!”_

Did he not realize that everything he did – every action was not just for the Red Line, but for them?

 

_“And you had a chance! You know you could have stayed at the Red Line! We would've taken you in! Or, what, maybe you thought Korbut forgot all about you? Not on your lifetime, d'Artagnan. And neither did I! You didn't like it our way, didn't want to join us, huh - so you'll just have to bite the fucking dust here!”_

 

He’s... he’s come to terms with this. This war they’ve started would wipe out half the metro and the Red Line... the Red Line wasn’t always right. The massacre they carried out in Oktyabrskaya with the potential “virus” was... evil. There was enough evil in this destroyed world anyways.

 

Artyom deserves his revenge against him. After all, he _did_ point a gun at his head, betrayed his trust, and was responsible for more than half the hell the man went through. He could practically feel his wrath with every precise shot he fired; killing and maiming his men yet only grazing him.

 

 _“You! Little fuck! I should have left you there with the Nazis, с-су́ка_ _...”_ (7)

Ahh... _that’s_ when his purposefully missed shots became deady: immediately making contact with the oil-light lamp on the table and another through his filter. He didn’t need to hear the heavy clunking of the Spartan’s boots to know that he was coming at a cautious and almost _testing_ pace.

 

When their eyes finally met through their masks, the remainder of his breathe was stolen right out from under him; his heart hammering desperately in the cavity of his chest – as if beating hard enough would allow it to rupture out of its boned prison and leap to re-join itself with Artyom.

 

“Oh, a knife, huh?” he couldn’t help but comment, realizing it was the very knife that had signified their _bond_.

  
“Aah, that 'ma boy, _that's_ my boy!” He cheered, urging Artyom – because no matter how much shit had went down between them, Блин, _that Spartan Ranger_ stalking towards him was _his boy_.

 

“Давай, Давай! No remorse, no reproach, _Даваййй_!”(8)

 

The connection between them was sobbing with reconciliation; unbeknownst to the brutal way it was about to end. Tyoma... that Чувак had to feel it, right? It was impossible for him to feel more of the connection than the other... _Блядь_ , he _knew_ he was feeling his admiration for him, his regret towards him, his _sadness_ towards this wicked situation.

 

Artyom’s heartbeat was finally drumming to the same tune as his own, the need to touch him and rekindle that exhilarating sensation making him drunk from need. He thinks it’s funny and as a good communist and atheist, he’s questioning whether this whole soul mate thing isn’t just a load of bullshit. How much does the boy in front of him feel it if he can kill off his very own soul mate? Or maybe he was right... someone born without the mark of a soul mate was never meant to have one in the first place.

 

Now their “souls” violent reunion was about to have a violent end.

 

All because he handed a man a knife.

 

_You can keep the knife._

.

 

.

 

.

Footnotes:

This is a continuation based off of ThatDamnKennedyKid’s “No Words” on AO3.  
There is no playlist for this story, however, I did listen a lot to Rammstein’s “Moskau”. The lyrics from this are under the title (although I messed around with them a bit (they meant lie as in lie down and I mean it as lying to someone).

(1) нет (nyet) – no  
(2) Tyoma – although many people write (and say) “Artyomich” the correct and more common diminutive form (nickname) of “Artyom” is “Tyoma” much like how the diminutive form of “Pavel” is “Pasha”  
(3) Блядь (blyad) – shit/fuck (comes from Russian word for pancakes and is interchangeable with Блин); however can also mean "whore".  
(4) Чувак (chuvak) – dude  
(5) Блин (blin) – shit/fuck (comes from Russian word for pancakes and is interchangeable with Блядь)  
(6)су́кин сын (suki syn) – son of a bitch  
(7)су́ка (suka) – bitch  
(8) Давай (davai) – come on

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed :)
> 
> HMU on tumblr! I just reblog like a mad man on my main blog, but I'm always posting song playlists, photography, poetry, fan fiction chapters, and answer prompt requests (anything from "hey can you write this? too a couple sentences of a "fic drabble" that I complete) on my writing blog. Don't by shy to fire off requests and prompt ideas at me!  
> See you there ;)
> 
> main blog: http://miod-jak-mela.tumblr.com/  
> writing blog: http://redmela.tumblr.com/


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